


We Dive Back In

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, F/F, Falling In Love, Non-Explicit Sex, Off-screen Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows, she knows without a doubt that she is loyal to her queen, that she will keep her secrets, die with them never parting from her mouth.  This is how Constance falls in love with Anne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Dive Back In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Celen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celen/gifts).



> Birthday fic for Celen! First time writing Constance/Anne despite really liking the combo (platonic or otherwise) so forgive me for any hiccups in characterization.
> 
> Also I didn't tag them as such just because their appearances are brief, but this fic does include d'Artagnan/Constance and Anne/Aramis, although the main focus is the ladies.

**I.**  
Being in the queen’s service isn’t what Constance expects – but then, she never expected this would become her life in the first place. Meeting the queen for the first time, so suddenly, was something like a dream – it should not be surprising that the queen could be as lovely and wonderful as she’d always imagined her to be, always heard from the musketeers that she was. And yet, to be faced with it, to have the queen know her by name is something of a shock. 

Later, the queen will admit that it is as if she already knew Constance, from d’Artagnan’s glowing report of her. The idea makes Constance flush – with shame and pleasure. Shame that it should be from d’Artagnan’s word and charity that she finds herself rising so high above her station, and pleasure that she should be considered worth it in the end. Perhaps a small part of her _is_ pleased that d’Artagnan might think of her, even if she tells herself she shouldn’t be. That she has to move on. That this is the way it has to be.

The first days are certainly a struggle. Constance’s best dress looks like rags in comparison to the other court ladies’ dresses, much less the queen’s. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting, all higher born daughters of nobles and diplomats, snicker at Constance’s appalling posture, her shoes, the way she wears her hair, and her inability to perform even the simplest of tasks afforded to a lady of the queen. It is not unexpected, really – Constance knew she would face their rumors and their judgment. 

The queen, however, is kind and generous. When Constance flubs doing the queen’s hair, she is kind and gracious – smiling up at her politely and walking her through the steps until Constance does it perfectly. When Constance doesn’t bow deeply enough or then bows too deeply, the queen’s smile is forgiving and accommodating. Constance thinks – hopes – that it is true kindness and not condescension, but she wishes to do better. 

It is two weeks into her queen’s good graces that she unfurls an elegant dress for Constance, tailored to fit her. Constance, a seamstress in her own right, can hardly breathe just seeing the intricate stitch work, the draping across the hips to flatter her figure, the structured boning of the corset. It would cost her husband more than entire year’s worth of wages, likely, and the queen presents it to her as if it is a simple matter, her smile dimpling as she tilts her head to gauge Constance’s reaction. 

“Today,” the queen says, all smiles and her eyes bright, “I shall be your lady-in-waiting.” 

Constance opens her mouth to protest, can’t even think of a proper response – it’s only been recently that the court has left its mourning clothes behind with the Cardinal’s death. 

“Your Majesty—” Constance begins but the queen has already walked behind Constance and begins undoing the laces to Constance’s corset. Constance sucks in a sharp breath and falls quiet. 

“It is no hardship, Constance,” the queen assures her. “It will help you with your place at court. I have a few of my older dresses that have fallen from fashion – I will have them refurbished to fit today’s styles and they shall be yours.” 

Constance tucks her hair over her shoulder as the queen’s hands, soft and pliant – unscarred and unworried by years of hard work – run along her shoulders and brush the fabric of her modest dress down. To think Constance once thought this dress extravagant. It is nothing in comparison to the dress that lays out before her now. 

“Please,” Constance says, “I could do the work myself – I do have some experience with the needle.” She hates the idea of the queen spending more money on her, ashamed that she should have needed to come to these steps in order to rid herself of a slovenly maiden masquerading as a lady-in-waiting. She licks her dry lips and clears her throat. “If I may, Your Majesty.” 

“Very well,” the queen says, her dimpling smile brightening as Constance looks at her over her shoulder. “I shall have them placed in your room and you may work on them after your duties are finished.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Constance says, stiff and polite – still unused to easy conversation, as much as it can be considered such. 

With the queen’s help, Constance strips down to her smallclothes and climbs into her new dress. It’s a perfect fit, flowing down her body and hugging at her waist. She breathes out and examines herself in the mirror. The queen is beaming behind her as she moves to her vanity and retrieves some jewelry, all modest by her own standards but extravagant beyond measure to Constance. 

The queen drapes a necklace along her neck, lets the pendant fall down to the crest of her bosom. Constance touches at it as the queen nods her satisfaction. She reaches out, steadies the pendant for her, and her fingertips brush against flushed skin. The queen moves to pick up some matching earrings, shifting to stand before Constance now. The fingers in her hair are soft and delicate, brushing her curls back so that she might clip the pearled earrings there. 

Close to the queen like this, it feels too familiar – she can feel the queen’s breath, see the different curls of color in her eyes – not just a blue, but wisps of gold and green as well. She watches the queen’s lips purse up in her concentration, and once she’s finished giving Constance her earrings, she brushes back her hair with satisfaction. Everywhere the queen touches, Constance feels her skin electrify – and by the time the queen is stepping back and studying her charge, Constance’s heart is thundering and her cheeks are flushed with the thrill of this pampering. 

“Lovely,” the queen says, meeting Constance’s eyes after giving her a once over, her gaze slow and dragging. When she looks at Constance, her smile turns almost playful, tilting up at one corner. “Don’t you agree, Constance?” 

Constance flushes, but finds herself smiling – feeling that she indeed could belong here, by the queen’s side, without shaming her queen. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

 

**II.**  
It is too daring that Constance should reach out and grasp the queen’s hand. She should think better of it, she knows the scandal of it – but in that moment, it is clear that the queen is in turmoil, the queen is distressed, and the queen – _Anne_ needs her. 

She can’t regret it when the queen turns to look at Constance, a soft understanding in her eyes – a gratefulness she doesn’t dare express in the presence of the court. Constance might feel out of place here, but it is not difficult to see that in many ways, the queen does, as well. Born into this world, and yet distinctly foreign, distinctly mistrusted. 

The walls are cavernous in this palace – rooms too large and too wide. Constance is used to the homeliness of her old house, even if in the unpleasant company of her husband. He tries, but it was always cramped – but in a pleasant way. Here, even with a room full of people, it feels vastly empty and unfriendly. It is only when she catches a passing glance from one of the musketeers that she feels secured again. It is only in the presence of the queen that she feels she might belong. 

Of course, there is something about her that will always be unruly and untamable – and she speaks out of turn more often than she stays quiet in the palace. She sees the way Rochefort scorns at her, the way the ladies flutter their fans in distinct mocking. She holds her head up high, though. She has worked too long, too hard, to be anything she is not – to be anyone other than herself. It was the strength of her character, her heart, her courage that made d’Artagnan’s stories of her to the queen stand out enough to require attention, to deem her worthy of knowing. She will not do anything to jeopardize the queen’s unrelenting trust in her, a trust born even before they met face to face. 

She can’t regret her decision to hold the queen’s hand, especially when she feels the queen squeeze back. There is a heat to the queen’s eyes when their eyes meet, and once the queen retires to her room – still holding Constance’s hand – she threads their fingers together. She holds their hands together, even as Constance leads the queen to her sitting position. The queen sits down and draws Constance to sit with her. It is a simple thing, in the end, their hands together, their fingers interlocked. The queen says nothing of it and Constance does not dare draw her hand back – thrilled to provide the queen this comfort, thrilled to feel she is needed and wanted. 

She knows, then, that she would do anything – anything – if it meant the queen’s happiness and safety. 

Since the queen’s appointment, Constance has not yet left the palace, has not yet seen her husband since moving into a modest little room down the hall from the queen. The queen has made a point to request Constance’s presence, to spend time with her – favoring her well above the other women of the court. There are times, perhaps, when Constance can almost forget their difference in standing – the queen is kind, gracious, and gentle. She does not look down on Constance or scold her for her shortcomings and ignorance of courtly intrigue. The queen is natural with her, familiar. They’ve laughed together already more times than Constance has laughed on her own this entire year. She wears the queen’s old fashions and her smaller, subtler jewelry. They walk in the gardens together. 

They hold hands like this. 

“The King will be alright,” Constance says lightly. The queen squeezes her hand in reply. “I’m sure of it.” 

“You are kind, Constance,” the queen says and looks up at Constance now. She offers her a small smile, shifts her hand so that her thumb might swipe across Constance’s knuckles once before settling against into the interwoven lacework of their fingertips. 

Constance shakes her head, reaches out and grasps the other queen’s hand – daring, always too daring – and lifts their hands up between the two of them, curling her fingers through hers and clasping tight as she looks at her.

“I’m sure that all will be well,” she says, with a force that she believes even if she cannot understand the extent of court politics. Her heart is pounding as she stares at the queen. 

She looks at her in turn, her eyelids flutter once before they fall shut. There’s the smallest, barest hint of a smile as the queen sighs out, and for half a moment she leans in before she ducks her head and clasps their hands back in turn. 

“Thank you, Constance,” the queen whispers, passionate and true. 

 

**III.**  
Anne is cross with her. Of course she would be. It’s an understatement, really. Anne should be furious with her, even with the mask of her relief she should never forgive Constance. 

The fact that she hasn’t been fired yet is honestly a miracle to her. It is a miracle she was not hanged for her daring, for breaking the rules in a way that not even Anne could bear to allow. Constance’s hands shake as she opens the door to the queen’s inner chamber. 

Anne sits at her vanity and does not turn towards Constance as she enters, does not react to Constance’s stiff curtsey or her stilted pleasantries of greeting. 

Constance waits a moment, but then approaches the queen. She moves, slowly, to work the pins one by one from the queen’s hair. Still Anne does not acknowledge her, does not respond – simply looks into her mirror and meets her own steely gaze. 

Constance loves to brush Anne’s hair – finds it so smooth and beautiful – but there is no pleasure in it for her now as she draws each pearled pin out one by one and lays them out on the table before the queen. Anne folds her hands into her lap and presses her lips together. 

“You understand why what you did was foolish, do you not?” Anne asks as Constance begins to glide the comb through Anne’s hair. It is soft and silken beneath her touch, slightly powdered and waving through her fingertips. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Constance murmurs, can’t regret what she did because it meant the dauphin lived, but regretting that she should have caused that look of betrayal to cross Anne’s face. 

“It was dangerous – and if something had gone wrong, if my son—” She breathes out sharply and says, softer, “If the dauphin had not survived, you would have been put to death, Constance.” 

“I understand,” Constance whispers. Then remembers to add, “Your Majesty.” 

“You should have told me,” Anne says, simply, and her eyes finally flicker up to meet Constance’s in the mirror. She looks at her, calm and unruffled – but hard edges to her eyes, days of distress and uncertainty, fueled on by a sick and kidnapped son and a new mistress within the court’s walls. Constance bites her lip. 

The queen feels so small, sometimes, underneath Constance’s hands – almost birdlike, fragile. But she knows she is anything but – knows that strength, that determination, that drive. Her façade so rarely breaks – she is always smiling, always calm, always graceful even in the face of her husband’s humiliations of her, her limited time with her son, a court that views her unkindly. 

“I believed you a friend, Constance,” Anne says, “and you should have trusted me with this. He is my son.”

“I know, Your Majesty,” Constance murmurs. 

She finishes brushing her hair, curls it up and ties it off for her. Anne sighs out, runs her hands down her thighs, over the soft silk of her dress. She rises and turns towards Constance, her eyes softening after a moment.

“… You did save him,” Anne says. “I will never be able to truly thank you for that.”

“It was—”

“Please,” Anne interrupts, not unkindly. “Let me thank you.”

She takes up Constance’s hands, delicately, gently – and leans down, kissing the back of each palm, bowing her head. Constance’s throat closes up and her heart races – it feels too intimate, too sincerely. She did betray her queen’s trust – to have this now feels too unworthy for her. 

“Your Majesty—”

“Thank you, Constance,” Anne whispers. “For saving my son, for saving the dauphin. I will never be able to truly repay you for what you have done for me, for his father – for France.” 

Constance swallows down thickly – takes a deep breath and then lets herself be daring, lifts her hands to cup the queen’s cheeks and raise her out of her bow. She lets her hands linger, cupping her face gently, gazing upon her with a small smile. 

“I would do anything for you,” Constance says, and means it. 

“Then next time – do not keep such things from me,” Anne implores. 

 

**IV.**  
The trip back to the palace after the disastrous trip to Emilie goes by, surprisingly, without incident – aided by Aramis, they make it back safely, even as Constance’s head still reels from the realization that the queen and Aramis have a history together. Constance looks away politely as they part ways in the hallway, Anne and Aramis’ hands lingering together, unwilling to let go, unwilling to look away from each other, as if they can never get enough, because they never will have enough time between the two of them. 

Anne keeps looking at her as they retire to her chambers. Constance helps strip down the modest dress the queen wore into the encampment and returns her to her more extravagant styles. She brushes back her hair, dresses her properly, and it is as if the incident never happened. Constance shoves the two modest dresses into a bag she will return to her room. No one will look twice at a tailor’s wife having modest clothing unbefitting the court, after all. 

Constance doesn’t meet her eyes, though – unsure what to think, unsure how to process the image of walking in on the queen and Aramis kissing. With a pang, she thinks of d’Artagnan – wonders if he knew and he, too, kept it from her. She thinks of d’Artagnan and misses him more than she wishes to admit. So, too, there is a steady, throbbing pain in her chest that Constance is terrified to identify as jealousy and therefore leaves unexamined. 

“Constance…” Anne finally ventures when Constance does nothing to break the silence, instead moving around the room and steadying everything and tiding everything up. 

Her heart hammers in her chest. It’s difficult to breathe, in the end, and she doesn’t know what she can say, what she can do – the thought of having such a large secret suddenly in her hands is terrifying, the implications of seeing a king’s musketeer with their queen is exponentially dangerous, not just for her, not just for Aramis, but for Anne herself. 

She isn’t sure what’s worse. That she should hold this secret or that she should feel this jealousy. And jealousy of what – the painful memories of a half-lived dream with d’Artagnan or, more terrifying, that she should be jealous of _Aramis_ himself? 

“Constance,” Anne says again, and this time her hand touches Constance’s and pulls her from where she’s slumped before the queen’s vanity. 

Constance doesn’t stumble back but she shifts back abruptly, turning to meet Anne’s eyes. Anne looks at her, concerned, perhaps a little scared and perhaps a little guilty. 

“If you will let me explain,” Anne begins.

“You don’t need to tell me anything, Your Majesty,” Constance says, a little stiffly. “You have nothing to clarify to me.” 

“Of course I do,” Anne says, softly. She steps a little closer and touches Constance’s cheek – delicate and gentle, her expression softening as she looks at her. “My hope, Constance, is that you might see me as a friend. And friends tell one another if they are displeased or upset, if they are in disagreement. What you saw…” she trails off, understandably, the walls of the palace far more constricting than a modest tent in the woods. Anne continues, though, after dragging her teeth over her bottom lip once in thought, “I understand if you – are upset with me. Or fearful of what it might mean.” 

“That isn’t it,” Constance says, forcefully. She knows, she knows without a doubt that she is loyal to her queen, that she will keep her secrets, die with them never parting from her mouth. Her hands shake and she closes her eyes, leaning into the touch at her cheek. The queen’s hand shifts, softens, cups her cheek more fully, more concretely. Constance covers her hand with her own, a dare that the queen does not shy from. “That isn’t it,” she says again and breathes out, a small thrill running up her spine as the queen’s thumb brushes over her cheekbone, delicate and uncertain. Her mouth parts and she whispers, “I would do anything for you – you know that I would.” 

“I hope to be your true friend, Constance,” Anne whispers out, and she’s so close – looking at her so fully, so openly, her eyes soft and, despite it all, hesitant. “Not just your queen. Your friend. But you do not need to accept that friendship.” 

“I’m not upset with you,” Constance reassures her, brushes her fingertips over the back of Anne’s hand. “I was only – I was surprised. We don’t need to speak of it – and not here.”

Anne’s face is open and grateful as she nods. “Thank you, Constance.” 

Constance looks at her – understands, then, how easily Aramis had made it seem. How easily they’d kissed – Anne’s mouth parted in a smile, pressed to him, holding to him as he wrapped his arms around her. She wonders if it would be the same to do that now, to drop her arms around Anne’s waist, draw her in, kiss her. She wonders if Anne would accept it, or if her smile was meant for a man she couldn’t be with, wanting to remember that touch of his mouth, the crisp drag of stubble upon her cheek. Her heart aches for d’Artagnan, and it is with a thrill of shame, of delight, that she understands that her heart aches for Anne, as well. 

 

**V.**  
The summer heat becomes unbearable, as it often does at this time of year. Constance spends most of her time in the palace fetching fans or water or bowls of fruit for Anne to cool her palate on. She stays in her rooms for most of the morning, but always comes out in the afternoon. 

“I refuse to stay confined,” Anne says one day, and doesn’t say it’s because of Milady, doesn’t say it’s because she won’t allow a mistress to force a queen into hiding. She doesn’t have to say it for Constance to understand, knows Anne’s insecurities when it comes to what Milady can do. 

There have been many times when Constance has thought to warn Anne, to warn her of what Milady is capable of, of what she almost did to her once. But Milady stays far from them, never straying far from the king’s side or retiring to her own rooms. She’s hardly acknowledged that Constance exists, and Constance believes in her own ability to keep the queen safe, so long as she stays by her side. Worrying Anne needlessly with it seems unnecessary. 

Today, the two of them walk in the gardens, some of the other ladies-in-waiting walking behind them. Anne loves these walks, so it makes the heat somewhat bearable. Constance stays by her side, enjoys the slight breeze that whisks through the tree’s leaves as they pass under their shadows. 

It is an easy, unquestionable thing for Anne to loop her arm through Constance’s and draw her close. After months in the queen’s employ, it is not unlikely to see Constance and Anne hand-in-hand. This is just another step further. And if anyone sees Constance’s blushing cheeks, it is only because of the midday sun. The queen, too, is pink-faced, smiling as she looks up at Constance – the light touches her eyes and she’s so beautiful. Constance can only hope to maybe someday be seen as beautiful as Anne undoubtedly, effortlessly is. 

She enjoys the warm press of skin against her own as they walk arm in arm. They pause beneath one of the larger trees. The women behind them titter but Constance is only looking at Anne. Anne looks up at her in turn, smiles her dimpling smile as the air blooms with the sweet smell of summer roses. 

“Do you need to rest?” Constance asks, beneath the shade. The air is thick with the heat. 

“If we might,” Anne agrees, and waves the other ladies on – who go and find their own accommodations for the heat. She sits down with Constance. Constance breathes out as Anne’s hand brushes over her thigh as she settles her skirts around her, tucking her feet beneath the bench they sit at, and turns towards Constance. Their knees press together and stay that way. 

Constance sighs out, closing her eyes and relaxing. Under the shade, the summer is almost pleasant. 

“It’s a beautiful day, is it not?” Anne asks, a pleasantry, just a way to fill the air. Out in the open like this, they cannot speak plainly. It’s just as well – more and more, Constance and Anne have found little reason to speak in public. Their greatest, kindest conversations are always in secret together, as Constance dresses the queen down for the night or prepares her for the morning. 

“It is, Your Majesty,” Constance says formally. 

Anne licks her lips and Constance’s eyes drop down to those pink lips, watches the way they press together and then part slightly with the softest breath. She’s shifted closer to Anne, she can feel it’s so – and when her eyes flicker up again to meet Anne’s gaze, she finds that Anne’s eyes have lowered to half-lids, gazing at Constance with a heat and intensity that suddenly makes the air feel chilled. 

Constance wonders what it’d be like to lean in and kiss her. An impossible wish, but she envisions cupping the queen’s cheeks, drawing her in, kissing her simply. Constance’s lips quirk at the thought of it, the scandal and daring thought – sees the desire reflected back in the queen’s eyes. 

But it is a danger and a scandal. It is an impossible wish. Anne’s smile is knowing but understanding, even as her eyes drop to Constance’s lips in turn. 

“Your Majesty,” Constance whispers, letting her breath press from between her lips, so that Anne might feel it, might know that desire. She licks her lips, slow, once – unintentional, perhaps, but understood. 

Anne draws in a deep breath – leans in the tiniest bit before she remembers herself and assembles herself back together. She sits up straighter again and her knee moves away from Constance’s. Her smile is polite, painted on – not the true smile she gives only to Constance. 

Constance envisions cutting the walk short, returning the queen to her chambers under the guise of fatigue – drawing her in and kissing her in the safety of her room. She knows it will not be, but she thinks that Anne must think of it, too – must think about kissing her. She knows she is not alone in this desire. 

Perhaps that is the worse of it, though. That they should both want what they cannot have. The memory, at least, will give way to dreams tonight – a strange mix of longing for d’Artagnan and pining for Anne. 

 

**VI.**  
Constance’s hands are still shaking when she leaves that manor, looks up and sees Anne’s hands clasped, her face twisted up in pain. She hurries to her, of course she does, how could she do anything but that – reaches for her and touches her cheeks as they speak. Relief and happiness, bursting from her – it’s almost too much. 

And to be swept up into d’Artagnan’s arms again – all of it, all of it is too much. It’s almost unbelievable that she should still be alive, that Anne and d’Artagnan both should still be alive. All her friends – all the people she cares for. 

The ride back to Paris is still fraught with nerves, everyone waiting for some kind of hidden danger. But Constance sits with d’Artagnan, holds his hand, feels that thrilling, pained delight in it. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about the dangers, about the scandals, about what it all means – if she can be with him, then all is well. 

Once back at the palace, she kisses d’Artagnan goodbye, feels his answering smile, feels his hands on her hips – how easy it’d be to draw him back to her bedroom, how easy it’d be to fall asleep utterly protected and in his arms. But they must part ways and it is with regret that Constance sees him to the palace doors. 

The queen summons her soon after, to help her prepare for the night. Anne’s lingering by the dauphin’s crib when Constance enters, and she goes with her to the sleeping child’s side. 

“He was so brave today,” Anne murmurs, looking down at the baby even as her mind seems elsewhere. She turns to Constance, and her eyes are misty as she reaches out and touches Constance’s cheek. “As were you.”

“You were the brave one,” Constance answers. This is not the first time she’s been in danger – it is not the first time Anne has been in danger, either. But they made it out, even as some of the court have lost their lives at the expense of a man’s game. Her hands are still shaking from the thought of it. 

“Constance” Anne asks. “I… I thought I might ask something of you and I know it’ll be – I understand what it might mean.”

“Anything,” Constance interrupts, because it is the truth. 

“Will you stay here tonight? I don’t – I find myself too…”

Relief floods through Constance, who reaches out and grasps the queen’s hands, leads her to her inner chambers in anticipation to help her to bed. 

“Of course,” she says, grateful that she won’t have to spend the night alone like this. 

Hours later finds them in bed together, but neither asleep. The terror still lingers, the fear and the distress of an entire day’s worth of trauma. Anne takes her hands and refuses to let go, and they lie side by side facing each other, neither even pretending to sleep, just looking at one another. 

“I’m happy for you,” Anne says deep into the night. “With d’Artagnan. You deserve to be happy.”

Constance feels herself tear up and brings up the queen’s hands, kissing her knuckles to cover up a small sniffle as she nods. “Thank you. I am happy.” 

Anne’s smile is soft in the moonlight and she leans in, kisses Constance’s forehead – lingers close, enough that her breath fans out against Constance’s flushed skin. 

Again, it’d be so easy to lean in – so easy to kiss her, to touch her. Constance holds back, just keeps their fingers intertwined, their eyes soft as they look at each other. She kisses the queen’s hands again and Anne moves a little closer, the space between them just barely there. She then leans in, kissing each of Constance’s cheeks, then her temple, their cheeks pressing together as Constance finds herself moving closer, their hands still clutched between their breathless bodies. 

“Constance,” Anne says, so quiet and so unsure. Her breath wisps over Constance’s ear. 

Constance breathes out, feels her heart pounding, and remembers the way d’Artagnan would hold her, those brief moments when they were together, the way he would nuzzle to her cheek and into her hair. She does this for Anne now, not daring to breathe with the familiarity of the gesture. But Anne just sighs out, relaxes, seems to melt against Constance. 

“We’re alive,” Constance whispers, lets her lips brush against the skin of Anne’s jaw as she draws back, shifts so they can press their foreheads together. 

She can feel Anne’s breath against her lips, feel the swell of Anne’s breasts against their clasped hands. They look at one another, so quiet and so still – not speaking save for their breaths against one another’s lips. Anne looks at her – so soft and so gentle, so longing and happy for her. 

Anne eventually does release their hands, but only so she can curl her arms around Constance, draw her in close. Constance swallows thickly but then mimics the gesture, wrapping her arms around the queen’s waist and drawing her in until they are pressed up flushed to one another. Only like that can they finally find a way to sleep, wrapped up in each other’s arms, finally feeling safe. 

Constance wakes before the sun rises, slipping from her queen’s arms in order to dress for the day and return to her presentable, to prepare the queen for her appearance to the court the day after such a tragedy. Her entire skin is electrified where Anne slept pressed up against her. She wishes she’d kissed her but in the harsh light of morning knows it was the correct decision not to.

 

**VII.**  
There is too much at once, far too much at once – it’s almost impossible to process it all. Losing her mourning clothes, only to find Anne as she had. Staying behind in a palace that would have her killed if necessary. Almost being killed. Too much. Far too much. The dauphin’s father. Aramis! Rochefort’s treachery, going to rescue Porthos, Aramis being saved – far too much. It all happens far too fast. 

It all moves far too quickly and then they are at war. She hardly has a chance to speak with Anne, hardly has a chance to reassure her, to speak with her. 

It is all too much and then she is married. She is happy, in d’Artagnan’s arms – the pain of the last few days melting away just from the way he kisses the tip of her nose and then her mouth, slow and warm and gentle. She could stay like this forever, locked in his arms, draped in his clothes and in his arms. 

But they are at war now, and she must say goodbye. They leave to fetch Aramis – of course they do, her dear husband ( _husband!_ ) and her friends are foolish and loyal to a fault. She could never find reason to deny that or not expect it. 

And, in the end, she must return to her queen’s side. 

Anne wishes to hear about her wedding, wishes for every little detail since she could not be there herself. Constance recreates the moment as best she can, describes her dress, describes the smell in the air, the way d’Artagnan teared up seeing her, the way Athos walked so sure-footed and strong with her on his arm, the way Porthos teared up, too, and tried to pretend he wasn’t. She doesn’t tell Anne about how empty the room felt without Aramis there, too. She knows Anne feels that every day. 

But Anne is all warm smiles and delight, asking Constance all the right questions, delighting in the details, and taking up her hands and kissing her knuckles at the end of it, whispering out that she would have been a beautiful bride and that she’s so happy for her.

Constance thinks that, perhaps, she should feel a flush of shame to betray her husband so quickly after he’s left to retrieve Aramis – to find that flush of pleasure and warmth inside of her at the hands of her queen. But then, she cannot deny that Anne is in her heart as well. 

She leans in and kisses Anne’s forehead, smiles when Anne tilts her head up into that touch.

 

**VIII.**  
The days of war pass by quickly. The king hardly calls for his queen’s console, although she gives it when she is able. But most days are spent waiting. 

Constance finds Anne sitting at the windows most day, looking out over the gardens or off into the horizon. Constance cannot blame Anne these moments – missing lost friends, missing a man she loves as they fight against her home country. Constance misses d’Artagnan fiercely, like a lead weight in her gut. She can only imagine what Anne must feel, having to say goodbye so permanently to a loved one. 

She sits beside her and covers Anne’s hand gently. “They will return to us.”

“Yes,” Anne says, voice faint but steady. “I know.” 

 

**IX.**  
The months drag on – as they will. War does that, makes the time drag and then makes it speed up. Constance finds it so strange that it should have been so long already since being parted from her friends, so long since she last saw a musketeer in the court. Treville is there, as war minister, but it is not the same as seeing d’Artagnan, or the other three. 

Constance is sad, of course she is, but she has her surety. Anne is lonely, lost to her thoughts – and Constance can only be glad to know that she is here to help her. Some nights, Anne has nightmares and calls for Constance to attend her – still ravaged by the night of the eclipse, by the moment Rochefort laid his hands on her, the feel of a chain around her neck. The queen has been through so much, and this is the least that Constance can do for her. 

Anne’s hair is loose and fair in the night, curled around her shoulders as she sits up from these nightmares. Constance sits at the side of her bed, reaches for her, pulls her into her arms so that Anne might feel her heartbeat, steady and sure, and find comfort in it. Her nightgown exposes her shoulders, the smallest dip of her back. 

In these moments, she is not the queen – she is only a woman, lovely and lonely and so strong. 

It is nearly a year into war when Anne leans up from this embrace and kisses Constance – finally takes that step that Constance never dared cross. It has been so long since Constance has been kissed, really kissed – misses d’Artagnan like an open wound even as her heart twists up in fear and love for her queen. 

The kiss is anything but tentative. Anne’s hands lift up and curl into her hair, grasping tight. There is so much need there and Constance responds, folds into the queen and kisses her back – just as she’s wanted to, for so long now, slow and gentled at first and growing hurried, deepening the kiss, cupping her cheeks and then sliding into her hair, down the back of her neck, over her shoulders, anchoring her down. 

Anne breaks the kiss, though, presses their foreheads together and keeps her eyes shut. “Forgive me, Constance.” She licks her lips, breathes out, and Constance almost leans in to renew the kiss. Anne whispers, “If it’s—”

“No,” Constance answers and does kiss her – again and again, cups her cheeks and brushes her thumbs over her cheeks, smiles a little when Anne makes a soft sound, unable to restrain it, and kisses her back. 

It’s strange – how just one little movement can change so much. But she melts into Anne and Anne leans back, falls back onto her bed and pulls Constance to her. They kiss and they kiss, slowly learning each other like this – that Anne likes it soft one moment and harder the next, that Constance just wants to feel the smile against her lips, the feel of hair curled into her fingertips. Anne is so soft and grows surer with each passing kiss. 

Constance wakes the next morning with the queen curled into her arms, both of them naked and their hair loose and fallen across their eyes, and Constance cannot regret it, not for one moment. Anne’s face is sleep-soft, warm and gentle even in sleep, her cheek cushioned against Constance’s shoulder. There are kiss marks on Constance’s stomach, her inner thighs, and that is easily covered, an easy secret to keep. A secret she will hold willingly if it means that she can hold Anne like this when the morning comes. 

 

**X.**   
It becomes a simple thing for them both. The queen retires in the evening, fatigued from a long day, and Constance accompanies her. 

The doors lock behind them and Anne folds Constance into her arms, kisses her. They help one another undress, draw the pins from their hair, the jewelry from their throat – punctuating each movement with kisses and more kisses. 

Fingers tangle in her hair and there is laughter and smiles, covered up by Anne’s lips against hers. It’s intoxicating, that feeling of liberation behind their closed doors – no one suspecting why a lady-in-waiting should attend her queen. So many months of dreams could never have prepared Constance for this, the way Anne draws her hands back to curl into her hair, to slide down her back, to cup her breasts and lay kisses upon her throat and collarbone. Nothing could have prepared Constance for kissing her harder each time, laying her out and spreading her legs, laying worship to her as Anne muffles her sounds against the pillow. 

“Oh, Constance,” Anne sighs afterwards, their legs tangled together as Anne traces her fingertip over Constance’s heaving stomach, circles around her belly button. “Dear Constance.” 

Constance can barely contain her happiness in these moments, her heart swelling as she tilts her head, leans forward and kisses Anne like it’s easy. It isn’t easy, not really – they must be quiet, they must be cautious, they must keep these moments limited only to the dead of night, secreted away. They both long for the men they love, Aramis and d’Artagnan so far away from them – but at least in these moments, there is relief, there is love. Constance will spend the entire night demonstrating to Anne just how much love there is.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)!


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